Page 55 of Same Time Next Summer

“Not true.” I cross my arms over my chest to protect myself from this accusation.

“When I was having that thing with Marion, I was lying to your mom, but mostly just to support the lie I was telling myself.” He meets my eye, as if to ask permission tocontinue. “People’s interest, as you know, in my work was waning. All I was creating were flat versions of something that once worked. And one night Marion showed up here in this rainbow-striped dress and twirled in a way that sparked my imagination. For a second I stopped feeling old and washed up, like maybe I wasn’t disappearing. It wasn’t really about my work.”

We’re quiet. “Was it worth it?” I ask.

“Absolutely not. I was using Marion as a bridge to someplace else, someplace where I would feel like a different man. I was terrified that I wasn’t good enough, but Marion wasn’t going to fix me. I didn’t become a new man, I just hurt everyone I loved.”

I’m hugging my arms around my knees now, bracing for the rest. I have never wanted to have this conversation before, but I’m ready for it now. I turned my back on the whole mess with Wyatt, and I turned my back on myself, but ever since my dad sat in that car and witnessed Wyatt and me digging up what was lost, I feel like something’s cracked open between us. I feel like he sees me, and I’m ready to see him.

“You cheat because you think it’s going to make you someone else, that it’s going to save you from your own damn misery. And that’s the lie you’re telling yourself. I guess that’s the point, Sam. Another person is not going to turn you into anything but who you already are. Make sure you’re not trying to turn yourself into someone else for Jack.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I mean I like having my act together.”

“As long as it’s not actually an act.”

Guitar music comes from the treehouse and it occurs to me that I have never lied to Wyatt, not once.

“Speaking of liars, can you believe how sneaky Wyatt was about being a big shot?”

“I wasn’t completely surprised.”

And then I just ask it, because why the heck not. “Do you ever still think about her that way? Marion?”

“That’s the weirdest part, Sam. Absolutely never. I can’t even conjure up a memory of what I was feeling at the time, like it was temporary insanity. Getting caught was such a shock to my system that I had to take a hard look at my life. I don’t lie to myself anymore. Or your mom.”

“I really do want to live like that,” I say. Then, in a practicing voice, I say, “I blew off looking at the napkins because I stayed up all night and then had a sugar crash.”

“Was that so hard?”

54

“My goodness! The bounty!” my mother says that night as Wyatt walks up the back porch, clutching three bottles of wine to his chest. My dad, Travis, and Hugh are all sitting around a big platter of cheeses and meats outside. I smile at the sight of them all together. Maybe this is possible, this whole impossible group. It’s my life plus Wyatt, which I have to admit feels more like my actual life. Just seeing Wyatt standing there practically within reaching distance makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.

“Maybe stick this in the fridge,” he says, handing me a bottle of Chablis.

I look at the label and back at him. “This feels awfully grown-up. Is this something we do now?”

“Yes. I also file a tax return.” He looks over my shoulder and says hello to Travis.

“Did you nap?” I ask.

“Like the dead,” he says.

“Can we go surfing tomorrow?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Was surfing on your wedding checklist for this weekend?”

“Right,” I say. “Linens and flowers.”

We turn to see Gracie walking home through the dunes with Andy Bryant from two doors down. They’re both carrying surfboards so it’s a tight squeeze. He says something to her and she lowers her head and looks away so he doesn’t see her smile.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

“I did,” Wyatt says. “That kid should run for his life.”

I want to laugh, but it doesn’t feel like Wyatt’s kidding around anymore. It feels like he’s pulling away. It’s subtle, but Wyatt’s pulling away is imprinted in all of my cells, like my body remembers.

When chicken andcorn are served, my dad makes a toast. “To old friends,” he says. “And to summer’s end.”

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